Ruby Street

I just found an old essay, commissioned by an organisation but never published (slight grump), on the poetry of Judith Wright and, specifically, her Collected Poems. It's a bit overviewy, as that was the commission, however, considering that I'm thinking at the moment about domestic space, intimacy and ecopoetics, these few paragraphs seem to contain some useful reference points. So, here's the extract: "If the poems in Judith Wright’s Collected Poems are approached in a way that does not seek to read Wright simply through themes of, for instance, landscape and nature or dub her as an activist poet or a lyric poet, solely, the poems can offer a broader field for exploration. The poems of her later years, such as the rather spare poems reproduced from the book Alive, allow a focus on the primariness of the lived space, of dwelling and intimacy with non-human space and place. This is exemplified in the long poem sequence ‘Habitat’ in which the poet, among other thing...

Just a few ideas, well questions really, about energy or movement in a poem. Certainly that can be directed through syntactical choices - paratactic, discontinuous, or hypotactic, continuous. It may be how tense is used. Can simple present tense lead to a kind of flattening of the poem’s energy? Possibly, though I presume that may well be mitigated by other factors, including syntax. What place is there for speculation in the poem via tense (subjunctive?), or mood (not grammatical mood so much as atmospherics), or aspect? There is also the force of the prepositional, the way prepositions place and direct. Does the poem rely more on monosyllabic (or close to) words or prefer the polysyllabic and depending on which, how the stresses then operate. Do polysyllabics clutter, or do monosyllabics become boring rhythmically? Again, other factors, such as syntax, enjambment, stanza will change these effects. Then there is the way the poem might move between the cont...

The list of contributors to The Best Australia Poems 2015 has been announced. I'm there (yay), amongst a big crowd. I'd prefer to call it a Big Crowd of Australian Poems, or something, rather than 'the best', because it's never gonna be that, because it can't. Still, that's an argument that's been rehashed a number of times. 'Best' is marketing speak, as we all know. There's a few names on the list that I don't know and some poets whose work I'm not yet well-acquainted with. That's all to the good. There's six (only!) South Australian poets - Steve Evans, Thom Sullivan , Geoff Goodfellow, Rachael Mead , Jude Aquilina, Jill Jones - unless one of the unknown-to-me folks is also living here. Slightly surprising, given I'm aware of good stuff published in the last year by other SA poets, or at least written, going on what I heard at the Lee Marvin readings I was in town for during 2014-15. I mean pretty damn good. But edi...

The latest issue of Mascara Literary Review has just been published, with the theme of Between Black and White. I have a small poem therein, Bright Yellow Black . There are many other good things to read as well, including a terrific short fiction by my friend and fellow Adelaidean writer, Shannon Burns.

There's a new poem from me at Cordite , just this week, called Bearing False Witness . It's part of their latest feature issue called Umami , edited by Luke Davies. My poem comes from an ongoing series of prose poems I've been writing on-and-off for many years. Occasionally one of them gets published. I have thought, from time-to-time, of putting them out in a small book, but I suspect that won't happen. So, catch 'em if you can. Speaking of Cordite , there's another recent poem of mine there as well, called In My Shifts , published as part of their (also) current TransTasman issue, edited by Bonny Cassidy. My irregular blogging past meant I hadn't noted it here until now, as I haven't noted a lot of things here over the last couple of years.

Yesterday, at Brighton Beach. One of the first continually sunny days for a while. Spring, almost. I don't really know Brighton, it's possibly only the third time in my life I've been there. Still, it's only a train journey away from home, so there I went, walking about, taking a photograph, writing a note or two: afternoon sunlight turns silver on Holdfast Bay clouds tack behind the hills days are what tracksuit pants are for another octopus pulled up onto the jetty babies are simply babies, phones are for taking pictures of the dog pig face, beach reclamation, vanilla or something more, he's yelling instructions at the kids, 'head for the sandbank' if you were here, or I was young in early spring with stupid hats, dogs' bums, eternal prams fishing tackle, without breaking like a wave having the moment's recurrence like a breeze through the gulf

lists flutter in the social breeze of course, all the tribunals, modern tribes a coast dark blue with them, somewhere I go down to the gulf one day join the breeze and I don't know anyone tide has washed in pieces of broken brick the gulls dive for fish if that means I don't care though I pick up a piece almost circular, red, mineral-specked I could skim it I put it in my pocket it's still rough there seems no point in keeping it it's in a bowl on a low table today is a grey day I felt it just now

violins or guitars grip onto a version of rain it’s from another epoch rather than a fool’s paradise rather than now even if it’s a lonely experience do you think it’s exceptional or merely blue, or the way this day is until it changes

Yes, your story rings true there is no here there the night has completely cured me or just behind closed doors, I shudder to think look forward to frosty trees southern light sounds fine I'm working something old themes happened will probably see me box again, happy maybe I mentioned it becoming real, in the hand glad book, be interesting.

your hand counted on it and if joy arrived in flicker, DIY laser prancing there was plenty too much O summer hoedown after the party run someone delivered bitter crust and for limp dicks, the gaudy you miss the festering the gear sings as it climbs a small city horn jump guns, exciters star blear and goon noise bring you closer each crack in the ether cry cry green lichen taking mould for comfort into overcast hollows back with sandstone night

Sometimes at night burning among cautions so when you wake sufficient clouds flame you were floating in what you haven’t done seek to tongue and carry remembered chora heavy moon will not let you sleep

Maybe I was born among democracy under libertarians on the lam. Maybe I was carted with mimics and homeopaths to the tune of a trice bawdy ballad as exchange. Then I was a debtor living in jalopies with some new kickback. I know I swallowed piranhas, and something more confusing. After that I didn’t speak about the libertarians for a long time. The mimics wandered, catcalls were exposed. When rampage reigned, I'd write in multiples. If they were bad seeds, I couldn't tell, but they were absorbed. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. There were votes in airships and trampolines, teacake for dolphins and yogis. I did not lose out though the yields were all under-reported. If the calories were faulty, it was always blissful in negative space, and the heavy breathing.

faint familiar what sort of creature extinct, quarry, the way they are anomola, lurks from shales mysteries eyes of rock could I be capable of such patience?

and lost, skimming the tinkle on line the benchmark is a dumbcluck again — wrong, it’s a coyote vibraphone a layette, a kitchen filled with fireworks and lobbyists so, avoid the normal, the natural it's not as if it's a subcommittee of outcasts they play, dudes, they play at the roadblock again among passersby, robins, leatherette rampages, the essentials of the lost, the sum of being a superstar or you’ve lost control again

This recent poem of mine in Overland is partly about the inbetweeness I've felt, partly about working life, always about language, but also contains a bit of a riposte to some recent reviewers who have made odd statements about who I am and/or what I am writing about or into. Though it's of little matter what people think anymore - recent events have got me beyond the whole 'Australian poetry' thing - but to note that all kinds of irritants are good for getting the poetry machine working.

bitter trash flower you can't pick clean morning swallow smile talk enters

ambits of cells account beyond basin valley barefoot sad one breaks words from harms crush gold cordial dew salt held in walls end paper crawl to begin sung flower flighted passage night feather ground make warm grasp shadow hands translate in order to say I’m for the jabber jumping corridors and fancies local by story line of air meander nuances my narrow emergency noises which stop night nowhere burning odd habits of hair patinate old roads with coming question crosses time reference: escarpment remainders gutter our star close luminous song scaring night transports lost tattooed tears playing stone bathed to gush forth violet interior marks attempt at continue what on the other hand sky this damage xerotic and crying for milk your misty throat zampillare, yes, yes, to gush forth

it is the centre of a word that is unimaginable, almost as it flutters out with the birds indifferent over the lake (from ‘Winged’ in Broken/Open )

maple shed violet over rusted chassis memory go out drum hollow branches testing concrete bronze white petal polystyrene horizon unrestrained letting breeze salt lick bay descents dust feathers stone steps hidden palms tongue indistinct but felt

data trickles through rain ice tracks dust on my side of thought but which side I don't know how to juxtapose devil syllables gagged I think of a reply phrased like a jigsaw piece this is blessing numbered for night disguised in simple time the air and me acting loose now tossing aside cold rain feeling levels, unmerged dreaming pleasures half-silent halt teeth chatter syllables body the road awash place me within the skim acres of grassy somnolence far away mist pink skin gets slippery when we could be at one